She did not sit down beside him on the bed.  They were an undemonstrative family, and such endearments as Belle used were lavished on her children.  But her eyes were kind, and a little nervous.

“Do you mind talking a little, Harvey?”

“I don’t feel like talking much.  I’m tired, I guess.  But go on.  What is it?  Bills?”

She came to him in her constant financial anxieties, and always he was ready to help her out.  But his tone now was gruff.  A slight flush of resentment colored her cheeks.

“Not this time, Harve.  I was just thinking about things.”

“Sit down.”

She sat on the straight chair beside the bed, the chair on which, in neat order, Harvey placed his clothing at night, his shoes beneath, his coat over the back.

“I wish you’d go out more, Harvey.”

“Why?  Go out and talk to a lot of driveling fools who don’t care for me any more than I do for them?”

“That’s not like you, Harve.”

“Sorry.”  His tone softened.  “I don’t care much about going round, Belle.  That’s all.  I guess you know why.”

“So does everybody else.”

He sat up and looked at her.

“Well, suppose they do?  I can’t help that, can I?  When a fellow has been jilted—­”

“You haven’t been jilted.”

He lay down again, his arms under his head; and Belle knew that his eyes were on Sara Lee’s picture on his dresser.

“It amounts to the same thing.”

“Harvey,” Belle said hesitatingly, “I’ve brought Sara Lee’s report from the Ladies’ Aid.  May I read it to you?”

“I don’t want to hear it.”  Then:  “Give it here.  I’ll look at it.”

He read it carefully, his hands rather unsteady.  So many men given soup, so many given chocolate.  So many dressings done.  And at the bottom Sara Lee’s request for more money—­an apologetic, rather breathless request, and closing, rather primly with this: 

“I am sure that the society will feel, from the above report, that the work is worth while, and worth continuing.  I am only sorry that I cannot send photographs of the men who come for aid, but as they come at night it is impossible.  I enclose, however, a small picture of the house, which is now known as the little house of mercy.”

“At night!” said Harvey.  “So she’s there alone with a lot of ignorant foreigners at night.  Why the devil don’t they come in the daytime?”

“Here’s the picture, Harvey.”

He got up then, and carried the tiny photograph over close to the gas jet.  There he stood for a long time, gazing at it.  There was Rene with his rifle and his smile.  There was Marie in her white apron.  And in the center, the wind blowing her soft hair, was Sara Lee.

Harvey groaned and Belle came over and putting her hand on his shoulder looked at the photograph with him.

“Do you know what I think, Harvey?” she said.  “I think Sara Lee is right and you are wrong.”